


It Starts In The Desert

by pyrokinetic loser (commonghost)



Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, but i didnt like it, its just brontes mom dw, so i changed it to third person, this isnt edited all that much but it should be that bad, this was the second person thing, you should still go read you are jeff and jessica gave me a chill pill tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28651287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commonghost/pseuds/pyrokinetic%20loser
Summary: It starts in the desert and the sun is beating, beating, ever-beating and Bronte feels the thrumming of his blood. It starts in the desert and the heat starts to kill him. His mother falls to the earth, hands drawn in a prayer, half-lidded eyes pleading to the sky, pleading to anyone who will listen. Bronte doesn’t know what to do, he’s never known what to do. It starts in the desert and Bronte runs.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	It Starts In The Desert

**Author's Note:**

> this used to be second-person but it was icky so i changed it. no idea what i was on when i wrote this but it was definitely fun. please dear god go read You Are Jeff and Jessica Gave Me a Chill Pill they're so good

It starts in the desert and the sun is beating, beating, ever-beating and Bronte feels the thrumming of his blood. It starts in the desert and the heat starts to kill him. His mother falls to the earth, hands drawn in a prayer, half-lidded eyes pleading to the sky, pleading to anyone who will listen. Bronte doesn’t know what to do, he’s never known what to do. It starts in the desert and Bronte runs.

It started in the desert but the desert is gone now. He’s in a school in the forest and he’s never experienced love like this before. Love starts with learning, with books and pages and ink. Love starts and ends as quickly as the first time. Over and Over and Over. Distantly Bronte thinks _Is this life? Over and Over and Over?_

The desert is gone and so is the school. The forest stays, but it’s vibrant and red and gold and yellow and green this time. He’s running from his prey. It started in the desert. Distantly Bronte thinks _How did I get here?_ He already knows the answer. He forgets it as soon as it comes.

The desert and school and forest and jungle (he finally knows what to call it) are gone. Glimmering towers and stuffed voices take their place. Tall walls and long corridors and short answers. Bronte craves long answers for the fourth time in his life. _How did I get here?_ He asks. _How did I get here? How did I get here?_

The towers stay. Always and Always. Bronte wishes they wouldn’t. He wishes for the desert and the school and the forest and the jungle. Bronte’s never wished for the desert before. He supposes there’s a first time for everything.

He paints and paints and paints. There’s never enough paint. Not for what he’s trying to create. No matter how many hours spent, labouring in either field or office, no matter how many brushes bought and used, it will never be over. Bronte paints and paints and paints. He wishes for the desert again. He wishes for his mother’s warm embrace. He wished he had listened.

Bronte meets someone new again. Someone he hasn’t met before. Distantly he sees himself in them. He tries not to listen. _How did I get here?_ He asks. Always and Always and Always the same. The same lie, the same answer. Bronte forgets the lie. He doesn’t forget the answer.


End file.
